Framed and Falling
by AngelofAir
Summary: Valentine Morgenstern was murdered by a young man with blond hair, about 6 feet tall. That much is fact. But when Clary and the NYPD blame two different people, the police begin to discount her claims...but for a very good reason. She's fallen in love with Jace Herondale-the police's prime suspect, and they think Clary's feelings have blinded her. Who killed Valentine...really?
1. Chapter 1

**Good evening. I am looking for a beta for this story, so if you are interested, please PM me or leave a review.**

**This story is and will continue to be a bit OOC due to the fact that all are mundane and their life situations have shaped their characters over their lives. And, obviously, it's AU. Please review!**

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_March 23, 2007. 9:03 pm, EST_

_Lincoln Cemetery, New York City, New York_

Jace Herondale stumbled through the graveyard, vaguely noting in his drunken state of mind that the brightly colored bouquets of flowers looked wrong against the depressing grey headstones, somehow. In fact, everything looked wrong. The grass was a cheery color of green, freshly cut. The night sky above him was crystal clear and the stars looked like diamonds scattered across a canvas of black velvet, twinkling and beautiful. Cars whizzed by on the street just outside the cemetery, thousands of people going on with their business, oblivious to the very drunk 17-year-old boy tripping among the grave stones, acting as if they had no idea he was about to give himself up to the horrific memories of the events of five years ago.

The boy stopped abruptly at one of the markers, sucking his breath in through his teeth. His golden eyes widened in alarm and panic, the harsh beams of the floodlights stationed around the graves turning his hair into a halo of gold. He stepped forward, reaching out as if to brush his hand over the rough stone—and fell to the ground on his knees. He stared. It was as if a pit of despair and pain had opened up in his veins, but the only feeling that managed to surface was numbness. He could feel the agony trying to find its way to the surface of his mind, of his heart, of his entire being. But, like a drug, the shock had settled itself in his blood, making him numb and unfeeling.

It had been five years. Five years since it all happened. Five years since he'd come home to find his parents dead. He'd been twelve then, but the grief was still fresh. Would it ever dull?

* * *

"_Mom!" Jace called, carefully hanging his brown corduroy jacket on the brass hooks near the garage door. "Mom, Dad, I'm back from karate!"_

_He frowned at the eerie quiet that had seemed to settle over the house. Slipping out of his boots, he padded into the kitchen, looking around anxiously. Something was wrong, he knew. He could feel it resonating in his bones. He left the kitchen and went into his father's study, sliding the glass doors open carefully. His father did not like to be disturbed when working, and often reprimanded Jace for being noisy in the house. Jace peeked in. He wasn't there. _

_He frowned and entered the room, noticing a large white box on top of the desk. He opened it and found a card addressed to him on it._

"_To Jace. With love on his thirteenth birthday, from Mom and Dad."_

_Jace grinned and glanced around him, the sense of wrong evaporating. He knew he shouldn't look…but it was so tempting, and he could always act surprised, right?_

_He unwrapped the tissue paper and founding a wonderful, new, black leather jacket folded carefully in the box. Excitement swelled within him, flooding into his chest. A real leather jacket! And a black one! He'd gotten exactly what he'd asked for. He just had to wait a week to put it on._

_He wrapped the jacket back up and put the box back in its original position, his expression smug. What he wouldn't give to wear that jacket now._

_He left his father's study and padded down the hallway, wondering if his mother was asleep. Her car was parked in the driveway, so she had to be home. Quietly, he turned the knob on the door and artfully rearranged his features to betray no sign of his inward excitement about his birthday present. His mother would take one look at his expression and know that he'd peeked. And then she'd be disappointed, and he couldn't bear that. He hated disappointing people, especially her. He pushed the door open—_

_And fought back a scream._

_His mother was in the room, but her eyes were not closed. Both of his parents were in the room, in fact, both pairs of eyes wide with fear and panic, both pairs of eyes clouded and unseeing. Their faces were blue and bloated, looking like something from a horror film, and their heads hung at odd angles. There was a cable tie tied tightly around their necks, cutting off their air. They hung from the ceiling fan, their hands clasped together in death. _

_Jace stood and stared at them in shock and horror and disbelief. Surely this was a nightmare. Surely this wasn't happening. He noticed his mother's side had been bleeding, and there was a trail of blood on the floor, leading up to the wall._

You're next, Angel boy.

_Jace swallowed and ran back to his father's den, hoping fervently that if he went back there, maybe, somehow, all this would be reversed. Maybe if he was back in the last place he'd been happy, his parents would be alive and nothing would happen. But when he finally reached the den, he realized that they were gone. That they'd left him. That they were never coming back. _

_With trembling hands, he took the black leather jacket out of its box again and enveloped himself in it, trying to find comfort in the satiny folds of the lining inside in vain. He crawled under his father's desk and huddled there, hiding from the world, his parents' birthday note clutched in his pre-pubescent, shaking hands._

_He got to wear the jacket before his birthday, after all._

* * *

By the time the neighbors had found him, he had been starving and incredibly thirsty, but he couldn't bring himself to move from his hiding spot under his father's desk, couldn't let go of the last time his mother and father had said _I Love You_. He remembered, as he knelt there before his parents' grave, how the lady who'd lived across the street, Mrs. Kay, had found his parents first. He remembered her scream of horror, and then he remembered her calling his name, her voice panicked. Mrs. Kay had been good friends with his parents and had often babysat him. He remembered how she'd finally found him, pale and wide eyed, under the desk.

She'd tried to pull him into her arms, but he'd yelled at her. He didn't want anyone to touch him. The police department had finally dragged him screaming from the house.

His birthday card had fallen out of his hands.

Jace dug his fingers into the grass, looking despairingly at the etched words, _Stephen and Celine Herondale. May the angels in heaven bless you and may you rest in the knowledge that your little boy is safe. D. May 20, 2002._

"Mom," he finally spoke, his voice cracking. "Look at what I've turned into, Mom."

His despair turned to anger. "You want to know what I just did? I got drunk and I had sex with some random girl whose name I don't even know. I don't even care. I don't care about her feelings, or about Mr. Morgenstern's feelings, or anybody's feelings. I don't even care about my own feelings. I don't even know if I can feel anything anymore. I think you and Dad took those with you when you left me. And you know the worst part? About your death? They haven't even found the murderer yet. The case has pretty much been shelved. It's the only thing keeping me from killing myself.

The hope that one day, I can kill whoever killed you."

* * *

_March 23, 2007. 9:00 EST_

_Morgenstern Residence, Brooklyn, New York_

"Mom, I'm home!" 15-year-old Clary Morgenstern called into her apartment, dropping her keys in the hand-woven basket near the door.

There was no answer, and Clary frowned. She heard a crash come from the kitchen, and subsequently tiptoed toward the noise. "Mom?"

The lights were off, but she could make out two shadows, the outlines of men, near the sink. One fell to the floor with a sort of gurgle, and the other one turned slowly to face her, the moon shining in through the kitchen window and creating a halo on his white-gold hair. She couldn't see his expression, and she didn't know who he was.

She stared at him, horrified, barely noticing the large pool of blood spreading rapidly around the man, who she assumed to be dead.

"You're lucky, little girl," the man in the window said, leaping up onto the sink. "You still have one parent. If you'd been here earlier, you might have suffered the same fate as your father here."

The man leapt out the window, landing gracefully on the fire escape and taking off, leaving his words to ring in Clary's disbelieving ears. She looked at the man on the floor in horror. She crept closer, her eyes filling with tears.

"Daddy?" her voice was no more than a whisper as she knelt next to her father, turning him over. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, fighting down the bile that rose in her throat. Her father's throat had been slit, and he was definitely dead.

She jumped back up and backed away, barely registering that someone was screaming. In fact, it took her a good five minutes to figure out that she was the one who was screaming. It was a loud, incredibly high pitched scream. She turned and ran into her mother's room. Her mother seemed unharmed, but she was lying on the bed, passed out. Clary ran to her mother and shook her wildly. "Mom!" she cried out. "Mom, wake up, please. It's Dad, he—" she choked on her own words.

Her mother wasn't waking up and Clary had the horrible thought that maybe her mother was dead too. She pressed her fingers to her mom's throat. Her mom was alive. She had a pulse. The man who killed her father must have knocked her out.

Clary pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed 911.

* * *

_May 23, 2007. 9:10 pm_

_Bridgewater, New Jersey_

"What can I get for you today…Mr. Morgenstern?"

The hooded figure in the black sweatshirt tossed a Payday candy bar on the counter. "Call me Jonathan, please."

The sales girl blinked once in surprise and then smiled. "All right, Jonathan. Will that be all?"

The boy in black nodded and handed her a five dollar bill. "Keep the change," he said, his voice measured, low and seductive.

The girl watched him curiously as he stalked out of the convenience store and tossed the candy bar in the trash.

* * *

_May 24, 2007. 2:49 am_

_Manhattan, New York_

Jace stumbled up to his apartment door, preparing himself for his foster father's tirade. Valentine Morgenstern did not appreciate it when he was out until the wee hours of the morning drinking and having sex with random girls. No, he didn't appreciate it at all.

Not, Jace mused, like he had any room to talk. His foster father was rarely ever home, always claiming to be on business trips. Maybe he wouldn't be home tonight.

He tripped over the threshold and deposited his keys in his black leather jacket, shoving his hands in the pockets. "Valentine?" he called out.

No answer. Good, he wasn't home.

Jace wandered tiredly into the living room, collapsing on the couch. He ran his hands through his damp hair, muttering curses about his life. He wondered how he could have ended up like this. He'd been a promising kid, once. He had real athletic talent, that much was sure, and he'd nearly worshiped his karate instructor. He was very intelligent. His parents had tried to convince him to skip a grade or two of elementary school, but he'd refused. He enjoyed school. Why would he have wanted to get out earlier? There was no denying he was attractive.

How did he end up like this?

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Jace groaned and got up. Who on earth could be knocking on his door at three in the morning?

He opened the door, stepping back in surprise when he saw the police standing there, looking angry.

They seized him and he heard the click of handcuffs encircling his wrists. _What?_

"Jonathan Herondale, you are under arrest for the murder of Valentine Morgenstern."

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**So what do you think? I need your reviews so I can decide whether or not to continue. And if you guys want lemons, let me know, and I'll change the rating to M, possibly. If enough of you want them bad enough,**


	2. Chapter 2

_March 30, 2007. 1:03 pm, EST_

_New York Police Department_

Clary's hands shook nervously as the police man escorted her down the dimly lit hallway of the city's police department. With her father's body in the morgue for an autopsy and her mother stabilized in the hospital, it was left to her to identify the suspects, bear witness, and help the police. They'd offered to find her a foster home, but with one parent alive, she was allowed to take care of herself, and that was the option she chose.

The police man glanced at her. "We found him in his apartment last week, drunk as hell. Claims your dad was fostering him," the officer said gruffly. He gave a short laugh. "Haven't heard _that _one before."

Clary didn't respond. The officer gave a little sigh.

_He must have one of the most boring jobs on the face of the planet, _she thought wryly.

The police man stopped in front of a heavy metal door and punched a number into the keypad that was drilled into the wall. "I'd 'ppreciate it if you waited right here for a moment, miss."

Clary stood back and watched as the door slid open and the officer stepped inside of it. She could hear his conversation with the man inside.

"All right, butterscotch. Stand up. That's right, hands up…all right, you're clean, now put your hands together."

Clary blinked in surprise as she heard the click of handcuffs, and then wondered why the sound had caught her off guard. The man could possibly be a murderer, right? Why was she so easy about him being locked up?

The police man came back out and gestured towards the room. "He's all yours, miss. I'll be standin' right behind the glass, and everything you say is bein' recorded."

Clary swallowed her nerves and nodded, stepping hesitantly into the room. The door behind her slid shut with a loud click, the bolts sliding home. She looked away from the door and took in the man before her.

Or rather, the boy. He was beautiful, she thought, and she immediately wanted to draw him. He was obviously tall, with his long legs stretched out in front of him. He wore a maroon jumpsuit with the letters NYPD written in the back. He had a mess of golden curls that shone dully in the fluorescent light of the cell, and his eyes were downcast, his lashes brushing the tops of his high cheekbones.

She moved further into the room. "Hi," she squeaked.

The boy looked up at her in surprise and she had to avert her eyes to keep from staring. His eyes were a dark gold, almost amber, and they were wide and seemingly innocent, if somewhat shadowed by the dark circles under them. "Why would you say something like that?" he asked quietly.

Clary looked back up at him. "What?"

"Why would you say 'hi'? I'm a murder suspect. I don't deserve a 'hi.' Especially not from _you._"

Clary frowned and sat down across from him. "I-I guess I didn't know what to say."

The boy nodded slightly and cast his gaze back to the ground.

"I'm Clary," Clary said awkwardly.

"Jace," the boy mumbled.

Clary took a deep breath. "So…um, what's your story?"

Jace looked at her again, this time with slight amusement. "I got drunk, I was walking down the street, your dad bumped me, I got angry, and so I pulled out my pocketknife and stabbed him in the chest."

Clary narrowed her eyes. "Not funny."

"Oh, but it is. You just don't see the humor."

"Please, Jace. The sooner you tell me your story, the sooner I can decide for sure that it wasn't you, and the sooner you can get out of here."

Surprise flickered across Jace's face again. "You don't think it was me?"

"I'm not sure." Clary expelled a breath. "Your hair is blond…but it's darker than the man I saw. And you seem too…young."

Jace brought his bound hands up, raked his hair with his fingers, and leaned back in the chair. "All right. What do you want to know?"

"Where were you at nine o' clock pm on March 23?"

"Lincoln Cemetery, in front of the Herondales' graves."

"Do you have an alibi?"

"The gatekeeper at the cemetery saw me walk in and walk out. I waved to him and he glared at me because I was drunk."

Clary raised her eyebrows. "So you really were drunk?"

Jace nodded.

"Do you have any holes in your memory?"

Jace shook his head. "I get drunk every year on March 23," he said, quietly. "It's the night my parents died. I was just visiting their graves."

Clary stood abruptly. "It's not you," she said quietly.

Jace looked at her, puzzled. "What?"

"It's not him!" she called out, turning to the one way mirror against the wall. "I swear, this isn't him. His hair's too dark. His voice isn't right. His story makes sense."

She heard the door slide open and she turned to see the police officer walk in, his face a little red. "You sure, miss? You absolutely positive?"

Clary nodded her head. "You should let him go. He hasn't done anything wrong."

Jace was watching her with an expression of complete shock. The police man made a face and left the room with a quick "I'll be back." Once again the door shut, locking both of them inside.

"I…um…thanks," Jace said hesitantly.

"Why are you thanking me?"

"Most people would just pin the blame on me. I look like the murderer, I was doing something wrong anyway. You could easily have framed me."

Clary shook her head. "It isn't as easy as all that—"

"Yes it is," he interrupted. "And you know it. The police don't want to spend all their time and money on a seventeen year old boy, just to make absolute sure he isn't the murderer. They'd rather convict him based on the word of an eye witness and move on to the next case."

Clary was silent for a moment. She studied him. "You said…you told the police that my father—that Valentine was fostering you. Why did you say that?"

Jace shrugged. "Because he was. Although, he wasn't home much, and I never knew he had a daughter. Trust me, I'm as confused as you are."

"But why wouldn't he tell his family?"

Jace shrugged again.

Clary frowned. "Do you have a place to live, then?"

"Yeah. Valentine and I lived in this apartment in Manhattan, close to Times Square. It's big."

Clary just nodded and looked down at the floor, ignoring the heat of his gaze.

"Do _you _have a place to live?"

Clary shook her head, just as the police officer came back in. He threw a pile of clothes at Jace and took the handcuffs off. "You're free to go, son. But don't think we won't be keeping our eye on you. You still drank alcohol, and you're not even eighteen."

Jace flexed his wrists and shot Clary a grin. "Wait for me outside, will you?"

* * *

Jace stepped outside of the police department, taking a deep breath of the air of the streets of Manhattan. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Clary leaning against a wall, twirling a bright red curl around her small finger. He walked up to her and held out a hand.

"Come on, you can live with me until your mom wakes up."

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**Okay, so, short, really crappy chapter, I'm sorry. I actually might discontinue this story. Not a whole lot of people seem interested and I have zero inspiration…**


	3. Chapter 3

***waves* Hey guys. If you could give me ideas for this story, that would be great.**

**This is a filler chapter until my block is lifted.**

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Jace wrapped his long, cold fingers around the hot mug of coffee Clary had given him and blew on it, watching the steam swirl around and disappear into the air.

"I still don't get why you were so convinced it wasn't me."

Clary turned around to face him. She was in the kitchen making sandwiches, and she was holding a knife. She raised her eyebrows. "It seems like you're trying to convince me that it _was _you."

Jace let out a short laugh and sipped his coffee, wincing when it burned his tongue. "If I were the perpetrator, I wouldn't be questioning you like this. In fact, I'd probably be somewhere far away from here…like Bora Bora." He shrugged. "It just seemed like some invisible person whispered in your head 'It's not him,' and you jumped up and repeated it. It was very…sudden."

Clary shook her head and turned back to the sandwiches. "Your hair isn't blond enough."

Jace raised an eyebrow. "I beg to differ. My hair is the most glorious color of blond on the face of this planet."

"I _meant _that your hair isn't as light as the person who killed my father's…"

Jace heard the strain in her voice and blew on his coffee again. He leaned back against the couch. "Was this where it happened?" he asked softly.

There was a pause before the red-haired girl answered again. "No. This is my apartment."

"_How_ old are you?"

"Fifteen."

Jace stood up from the couch and walked over to the kitchen, leaning on the counter next to her. "Then how the hell do you have your own apartment?"

She glanced at him and then dragged a butter knife through the sandwich she'd finished making. "It was my dad's. He used to come here when he and my mom had fights. About a year ago, they took a seminar together and stopped fighting, so he stopped using the apartment. I asked if I could have it for an art space, and my dad said yes, and even helped me move all my art supplies here. It was always my escape place. It's well-supplied. I could live here for five years without even needing a job."

"So you lived here? By yourself?"

She shook her head and cut the other sandwich, moving it from the bread board to a paper plate and handing him the plate. "No. I lived at my parents' house. But I came here whenever I wanted to be alone. My house is a crime scene now, complete with paper numbers and yellow caution tape. I'm living here now."

Jace leaned back against the counter and bit into the sandwich. It was good—ham and cheese, with a little bit of mustard.

"That's partially why I invited you to live with me. You knew my father, and…well, I was lonely. I think one more day here, alone, with nothing to think about but that night…"

Jace nodded understandingly. "So…Valentine never told you about me?"

Clary put the breadboard away and threw the utensils she'd been using into the sink, shaking her head. "No. I don't know why, but he was always hiding things like that. He would do things like donate half his paycheck to Compassion International, and my mom wouldn't find out until she balanced our checkbooks. I remember one morning we woke up to find our TV gone, and we thought it had been stolen until Dad told us he'd given it to one of his colleagues at work because said colleague's TV had been smashed by his children. He did all sorts of random acts of kindness without telling anyone or expecting any gratitude. It's one of the reasons my mother loved—_loves_—him so much. He had a surprisingly big heart."

Jace nodded, thinking back to his days living with Valentine Morgenstern. Had he been ridiculously strict? Yes. Was Jace punished if he did something wrong? Yes, of course. But Jace had also been given everything he needed. He'd been sent to a high end private school. He always had as much food as he wanted. He had clothes that would last him decades. He had everything he'd ever wanted, and Valentine had given it to him. Now Jace was finding out that he was receiving all these things at Clary's expense. "Did _you _have enough?" he asked her, a horrifying thought washing over him.

She laughed. "Of course. Dad wasn't stupid. His family was always first. He always made sure we had enough of whatever we needed or wanted before he gave his money away."

"Was he strict with you?"

Clary's face darkened for a moment. She bit into her sandwich and nodded her head slowly. "A bit too much sometimes. I got drunk with my friend, Simon, once, and he didn't let me out of my room for three days. I mean, he gave me food and water, and I had a bathroom in my room, so I wasn't really in any danger of anything. But he cut me off from all social interaction. He took my art supplies away, my phone, my laptop, my TV. Everything."

Jace nodded. "That sounds like him."

Clary threw her sandwich crust into the sink. "Enough about my father." Her voice sounded strained again. "You need some different clothes."

Jace shrugged, finishing his own sandwich. "My apartment is taped off, too. I don't have any clothes."

Clary smiled at him and motioned for him to follow her as she left the kitchen. He followed her into what looked like an office. It was large, and had a whole wall full of books, from floor to ceiling. In front of the book case was a large desk and chair. Clary walked around to the back of the desk, typing a code into a keypad built into one of the drawers. The drawer popped out and Jace nearly choked. It was a drawer full of money. Filled to the brim, stacks of 20s, 50s and 100s, all neatly tucked away in the drawer. Clary caught his eye and smirked. "There are other drawers like this, full of foreign money. From England, India, China…"

She pulled a stack of 20s out and shoved a few in her pocket.

"Come on," she said, shutting the drawer and walking out of the office.

"Let's go get you some new clothes."

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**Okay, so…Clary and Jace are living together in an unrealistically well provided for apartment. The rating on this may change to M…because I thought of a great place for a lemon…anyway.**

**Review!**


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